


Yet Hope Remains

by MurmuredLullabye



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, F/M, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurmuredLullabye/pseuds/MurmuredLullabye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nearly forty years since the Shire was lost to the Orcs during the Fell Winter, and the Hobbits are finally building a new home for themselves in the hills between Lake Esgaroth and Mirkwood. Thorin, the Blacksmiths' Guildmaster, and a few members of his family are sent to assist the Hobbits' fledgling settlement to seal a treaty that will give Erebor's booming population a fresh source of food. </p><p>But Thorin never expected to grow fond of them. </p><p>And he certainly didn't expect their Thain, Bilbo Baggins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and thank you for taking the time to read! This fic is near and dear to my heart and soul, and I truly hope you all enjoy it. This fic is dedicated to [HallsOfStone2941](www.hallsofstone2941.tumblr.com) for being a great beta and a terrible enabler. 
> 
> You can find my tumblr [here](www.murmuredlullabye.tumblr.com). I'll be posting things related to this work (music, headcanons/meta, maybe some reblogged gifsets if they inspire or illustrate something) there under the #yhr tag. If there's something you'd like to discuss, related to this fic or not, I'd love it if you'd drop something in my askbox.

_Frodo--_

_You asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about your uncle. And while I have never once lied to you, I may not have told you all of it. I am old now, Frodo, and I think it is time for you to know what truly happened._

_It began over a century ago, in a land far away to the west, the likes of which cannot be found in the world today; the Shire, home to the Hobbits. A land of rolling green hills and winding streams that sparkled in the sunlight, its wealth laid not in precious gems or metals but in the rich soil that provided bountiful harvests and grazing land for livestock._

_But one year there was a poor harvest caused by a blight upon many of their grains. Though they did not know it at the time, a sickness had fallen upon the land - and where sickness thrives, bad things follow. Slowly the days turned colder and the nights longer; winter was closing in. It was the most terrible winter Eriador had known, so bitterly cold that some hobbits ran out of firewood and froze to death in their homes while others fell to sickness and starvation as stores of food and medicine dwindled._

_That was not the end of their troubles, for even as the Hobbits fought to stay warm and fed, Orcs and their vicious warg mounts crossed the frozen Brandywine and descended upon the Shire. At first it seemed that they wanted naught but death and destruction, but as the days passed and the Bounders fruitlessly tried to fight back, the Orcs developed a taste for Took blood. They burnt Stock, Woodhall, and Frogmorton to the ground, and the only survivors were those that fled fast and silent enough to escape the invaders. And then the orcs reached their destination, Tuckborough, where the Thain, many of his family, and those willing to fight had gathered in hopes of launching a surprise attack._

_They were all slaughtered, without mercy or hope for escape._

_Belladonna Took, daughter of the late Thain, heard the news and took charge of the remaining Hobbits as best she could. Under her guiding hand, they fled, taking with them only what they could carry on their backs. And thus, the Shire was lost._

_Robbed of their homeland, the Hobbits wandered the wilderness and the lands of Men, often working as farmers and menial laborers under Men who paid far too little for the skills, a people once independent and proud (in their own way) lain low._

_Far away, across the Misty Mountains, Orcs were only mentioned in libraries as part of the long histories of the dwarves. And that is where I came in. For in a city within a mountain, there lived a dwarf. Not a small, messy, dank city marred by filth and darkness; this was a dwarven city - and that means great marble columns, halls lined with gold, and the warmth of the forges that remain lit every day and night of the year._

 

* * *

 

A dwarf’s workshop was a sacred thing. There was an old saying that claimed you could tell more about a dwarf from their workspace than the jewels they wore, and no one could deny the truth of it.

Thorin was a wealthy dwarf, and as such he could afford to maintain his own personal workshop within his family’s halls instead of renting a space from the Guilds. But despite this, it was a small room, simple and unadorned, containing only what he needed for his work. He kept only the necessary things in his forge; the hearth and bellows at the back of the room, the anvil in the center, and two stone tables backed against the left wall, one empty and the other with every tool a blacksmith could need lying upon it, and the walls were bare with the exception of a massive granite shelf that held ingots of various metals and some half-finished projects.

The steel practically sang under Thorin’s hands as he carefully guided it into the form of a sword. He didn’t have Dis’ talent for the stone-sense, but the feeling of taking a hammer to good dwarven metal upon an anvil, the beat of the forge, the simple satisfaction that comes from creating a fine blade or breastplate...perhaps this was the same sort of contentment and belonging that Dis’ spoke of when she’d tried to explain what it was like to feel the mountain down to its very bones.

At some point, Thorin began to hum an unplanned ditty to the beat of his hammer striking the anvil as he lost himself in the work, blocking out everything except for the sword he was crafting and the tools that made it possible. Time lost its meaning, flowing and slipping out of his grasp as Thorin focused everything he had upon his task. The muscles in his arms began to protest the lengthy work, but Thorin was far more interested in completing the sword than taking a break.

With a final swing of his hammer that forced a section of steel at the edge of the blade into line, he slowly began to return from his trance-like shape. Thorin was not quite aware of quenching the sword in the nearby trough of water, but by the time the steam died down he was fully aware of his labored breathing and the mild ache in his shoulders and arms. Leaving the metal to cool off, he placed his set on the table and shucked off his thick gloves. A moment later, Thorin retrieved the sword from the trough, holding it with both hands as he examined it carefully, double-checking for balance and any imperfections. The metal was uncomfortably hot against his bare hands, but not enough to burn.

“Uncle Thorin?”

Startled, Thorin turned slightly and looked up at the doorway, where Fili stood, one ink-smeared hand curled around the doorframe - his nephew must have just returned from working in the library with Thrian. He hadn’t even heard him enter.

“It’s dinnertime,” Fili continued.

Thorin blinked. “Already?” Surely he hadn’t been working in his forge for that long.

The corner of Fili’s mouth curled upwards as he huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been in here all day, Uncle. Didn’t even stop for lunch. I imagine Grandmother will be very cross if you skip dinner too.”

“Most likely,” Thorin agreed dryly as he moved to set the unfinished sword down on the table. For all that he was over two centuries old, his mother still managed to make him feel like a naughty dwarfling caught playing with his parents’ beads whenever she narrowed that withering glare of hers at him. “Who’s cooking tonight?” Thorin heaved up the bucket of water he kept next to the forge for dousing the fire and began to pour it over the fire, flinching away from the hissing cloud of steam it released on reflex.

Once the worst of the noise died down, Fili said, “It’s Frerin’s turn, I think.”

That meant fish of some sort, probably. Cooking duty for the evening meals rotated among the adults of the family, and the recipe of the night was the cook’s choice. Frerin’s favorite was fish, despite the fact that traditional dwarven meals tended to prefer heartier meats.

When the last of the embers went out, Thorin dropped the bucket on the ground and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He grimaced. “I should probably --”

“Clean up?” Fili offered, his smile widening.

Thorin let out an exasperated sigh. “Indeed.” Dis would murder him if he showed up to dinner stinking of sweat and smoke without a single bead in his hair or beard, and Frerin would simply flat-out refuse to serve him.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Fili laughed he turned to leave.

Thorin nodded, untying his protective apron as he made his way to the doorway and hung it on the hook left of the doorframe. “Tell them I won’t be long!” he called at Fili’s back. His nephew gave him a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he half-ran down the hall to the dining room. Thorin didn’t have time for a proper bath, unfortunately, so he made a beeline for his rooms, stripped, and did his best to wash away the worst of the grime with a cloth and water from his tap. He yanked on fresh clothes and snatched a few silver beads from his jewelry box before exiting, hurriedly braiding them into his hair as he headed down the long, intricately carved hallways that connected every room in their home. Hopefully there would still be food left when Thorin made it to the dining room. He wouldn’t be too surprised if there wasn’t, knowing his family.

As he turned left at the second corner, his ears began to pick up the increasingly loud sound of chattering voices. The door to the dining room, not far down the hall, was half-open. Thorin hurried inside, but before he could fully step over the foyer a smaller body rammed into his, forcing the breath out of his lungs. The other dwarf quickly snaked their arms around his stomach, pulling him into a tight hug. Thorin returned the hug almost automatically and looked down to find Suthri beaming up at him, cheeks dimpled and dark eyes dancing with good cheer.

“Uncle, I got the apprenticeship with Master Sviur!”

A wide grin spread across Thorin’s face without conscious thought, though he made no move to stop it. The news awakened a fierce pride in him. Sviur was a skilled glassworker, and to be accepted as an apprentice at such a young age was an honor indeed. He squeezed Suthri tightly for a moment before releasing her and stepping an arm’s length back. “You’ve earned it.” She had spent many nights pouring over texts and dozens of hours watching glassblowers at work to prepare for the apprenticeship tests.

Nothri, still decked in the finery he wore for court, swept forward, placing his hands on his hips. “Are you stealing my daughter from me, Thorin?” he asked jokingly. “I swear, you’re the favorite, and I’m the one who raised her.”

Suthri snickered into her hand. “But he gives me cookies.”

Nothri fixed Thorin with a rather accusing stare. “I give everyone cookies,” Thorin protested. It was true, after all - he was the best baker in the family, and usually the one making sweets on holidays.

Kili broke out of whatever conversation he was having with Fili as the two of them raced around the room, setting the table, and snorted loudly. “Not once a week!”

“Traitors!” Thorin yelled back. Kili and Fili dissolved into laughter.

A loud sigh from the further up the table cut them all off. “Sit down, the lot of you!” Dis ordered.

Suthri scampered back to her seat on the left side of the table, four spots down from Thrain’s seat, with Nothri sitting on her right. Thorin claimed the one directly on Thrain’s left, leaving Frerin’s usual seat open between Thorin and Nothri.  Thrain observed the whole scene with a small smile and an amused glint in his eyes, though Vris, on his right, just looked exasperated.

Dis returned to her conversation with Vili - something about the ruby mines and the smuggling problem in the Iron District - and pulled one of her daggers and a whetstone from one her many pockets to sharpen as they waited for the food. Fili and Kili, now seated on their father’s right, were engaged in some sort of intense debate about...inks and dyes? Thorin wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“No weapons at the table,” Vris said tartly.

Even Dis feared their mother, so she hid her blade away and pocketed her whetstone with a minimal amount of grumbling.

“Excellent. Now, please tell me you put that insubordinate guard in his place --”

Frerin knocked aside the tapestry covering the entrance to the kitchen as he waltzed into the room carrying a massive platter of fried pike. “Food incoming!” he called.

The instant he placed it on the table, a hush fell over the gathered dwarves as they all dropped their conversations in favor of jostling for the best cuts. Thorin managed to snatch one away from Dis’ probing fork. She glared, and he gave her a triumphant little smirk in return.

Frerin reappeared a moment later with a bowl of roasted green beans and mushrooms in one hand and a plate of baked potatoes in the other. He slid the dishes to the center of the table before sitting down and immediately snatching a serving of everything for himself. Another flurry of silent activity ensued as the dwarves filled their plates and then their stomachs.

Thorin had just finished off the two pieces of pike he’d managed to grab when Kili spoke up through a mouthful of potato. “So what’d you make for your test?”

Before Suthri could even open her mouth to reply, Dis somehow reached behind both Vili and Fili to tweak Kili’s ear. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth!”

Kili swallowed and muttered something that sounded at least a little like an apology. Leaning forward, Fili said, “Come on, we’re curious. Indulge your favorite cousins.”

“You’re my only cousins,” Suthri muttered before forking a mushroom into her mouth.

Frerin hid his quiet laughter behind his beard and a mug of ale, but Thorin saw his shoulders shaking slightly and the distinct way his beard bristled as he smiled. His brother’s daughter had inherited Frerin’s talent for clever words and Nothri’s tact - a formidable combination indeed, and one many of the family found amusing at times.

“Flowers,” Suthri announced finally.

Thorin’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead, and he glanced at Frerin, who only shrugged. It was an unusual subject for dwarven craft, to say the least, even among the glassworkers, who tended to utilize curves and organic forms as part of their designs more often than the other crafting guilds. Though perhaps not so odd when Frerin’s duties as a diplomat were taken into consideration, as they often required him (and sometimes Nothri and Suthri) to spend a lot of time outside of Erebor among the Men and Elves and, more recently, Hobbits. Part of him insisted that it was bad luck, doing something so un-dwarven for an apprenticeship test, but Thorin stomped that thought out. Yet he was clearly not alone in his thoughts, as everyone at the table had gone very quiet and stiff.

Vris brushed some crumbs out of her long silver beard with her hand and said, “They would have looked beautiful. Do you think Master Sviur will let you make more? I’d love to see them someday.”

And just like that, the tension was broken. Thorin shook his head at his own foolishness. So what if Suthri had a fondness for flowers? She had earned her apprenticeship, and that was all that mattered.

Suthri beamed. “I hope so.”

Vris mirrored her smile and dipped her head. “I look forward to it, then.”

Cracking his fork against the table, Thrain declared, “A toast for our clever Suthri! _Ulkhad mi sanzigil_!”

Thorin raised his mug and roared, _“Ulkhad mi sanzigil!”_ along with the rest of his family. He took a big gulp of ale before setting the mug down and snatching his third potato cake from the serving plate. He began to eat, a quiet sort of contentment settling in his stomach as his family laughed and chattered around him. He couldn’t imagine wanting anything more than this.

 

* * *

 

The meal continued in that fashion, all of them loud and boisterous, until the serving plates were emptied and Frerin brought out the chocolate cake he’d made for Suthri as a special treat. That too was quickly devoured, and soon it was time to begin the process of cleaning up. Tonight was Fili and Kili’s turn, and they complained as they usually did when faced with the prospect of chores, though in the end they were quick enough to start clearing the table. It wasn’t long before the sounds of laughter and clanking dishes started filtering out from the kitchen.

The rest of them trickled away to their rooms or the family baths as they settled into their evening routines. Thorin himself went to his study to retrieve his pipe, a bag of leaf Frerin had brought back from the Hobbits last month, and fire-striking stones before making his way to the sitting room.

A shallow, perfectly square pit lined with a simple ledge that served as a bench was carved into the center of the room, filled with so many blankets and furs and cushions that very little of the stone was actually visible. His father and mother were already seated next to each other in one of the corners, Thrain perusing an old book of poetry and Vris working on her knitting. Thorin settled in across from them, covering his lap with a wool blanket before packing some of the leaf into his pipe and lighting it with his fire-striking stones.

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and forced himself to relax. Many decades of working in the forge had taught him that tense muscles after a day of smithing would only lead to pain in the morning. Thorin cracked open his eyes as he exhaled and smirked slightly when he saw he’d managed to create a nearly-perfect smoke ring.  

A loud knock cut through the peaceful silence, echoing through their halls from the front door so that it could be heard in even the farthest rooms. Vris’ knitting needles clacked together sharply as she started, and Thorin scowled at the interruption before looking toward his father with a raised eyebrow and a silent question in his eyes.

Thrain shook his head and frowned, marking his place in the book with a strip of cloth before setting it down on the couch and standing. “It’s probably just a courier with a book I asked for.”   
Huffing, Thorin settled back into his seat with another puff of his pipe as Thrain left. It was rather late for anyone to come calling, even a courier with a package to deliver. Most dwarves would’ve done the respectful thing and waited until the morning.

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before the sound of footsteps moving towards them could be heard. Thorin frowned just before the door creaked open behind him; one dwarf, even in boots, could not make that much noise. Sure enough, when he twisted around and looked up at the doorway, Thrain was standing in front of Prince Dain, of all dwarves.

Thrain gestured forward. “Here, sit where you like.”

Dain nodded. “My thanks,” he said as he made his way over to the nest and sat at very center of the ledge on the far side.

Vris took one look at Thrain and arched her pierced eyebrows. When Thrain shook his head, Vris let out a heavy sigh before inhaling, and bellowed, “Everyone in the sitting room! Now!” Honed from many decades in Erebor’s army, Vris’ voice, when raised, was bouth authoritative and extremely loud. Thorin very nearly winced at the volume.

Fili’s faint call of “Coming!” was the first reply, followed by some wordless (but somehow still loud) grumbling from Dis and an inarticulate shout that sounded like Nothri. Kili, with Fili on his heels, arrived first. Frerin strode in not long after, with Dis and Vili just behind him.

“Nothri’s putting Suthri to bed. She’s had a long day,” Frerin murmured, and Thrain nodded, accepting the explanation.

It took them a few moments to get the seating arrangements sorted, but once everyone was settled, Vris picked up her needles and said, “Now, Dain, what’s going on?”

Dain clasped his hands together in his lap and cleared his throat. “As you know,” he began, nodding to Frerin, “we started negotiating with the Hobbits a few months ago when they began to build their settlement. The treaty is nearly finished, and they’ve accepted the _ûfu naisjiri_.”

Thorin stiffened in his seat at the mention of the old dwarven tradition. It hadn’t been invoked in centuries; when Thror had first come to Erebor he had used it to seal their alliances with the Men and Elves, but it had not been invoked since. Through exchanging groups of crafters, the _ûfu naisjiri_ allowed new allies to become more familiar with each other and perhaps learn a thing or two. And it wasn’t the sort of thing used for a mere trade alliance.

“Why?” he demanded. “The Hobbits are farmers, nothing more.” They had started appearing in small groups nearly two decades ago now, working as temporary laborers on the fields of Men. But slowly some had saved enough coin to purchase their own properties and recently they had negotiated with Dale for a rather generous grant of land. Perhaps they were good farmers, but that hardly meant they could be useful to Erebor as anything beyond a convenient source of food.

Turning to face Thorin, Frerin frowned. “They lost their home to orcs, you know. They’re hardy folk.”

Thorin grunted but didn’t respond verbally. Privately, he thought that if they had truly been as ‘hardy’ as Frerin claimed, they would’ve been able to fight off any attackers instead of fleeing like frightened rabbits. Hobbits were small, prone to the same weaknesses as Men - and unlike Men, they didn’t provide much in the way of trade. But it wasn’t his decision to make, no matter how foolish he thought it.

“And what does this have to do with us?” Vili asked, something like suspicion creeping into his voice.

Dain huffed. “The Hobbits are in no position to host a dozen dwarves, so we settled on exchanging a small family group of craftsmen. My father and the council decided it best that we send you.”

What - no. Thorin almost swallowed his pipe, and spat it out, coughing. “Dain, you cannot be serious --”

“Oh, I’m entirely serious. Have you ever had a pint of hobbit ale, Cousin? If nothing else, their alchohol is worth every honor we can afford them.”

Thorin shook his head, rubbing at his throat. That couldn’t be all there was to it. Dain - and King Nain - were many things, but they weren’t fools, or the sort to start an alliance merely on the merits of someone’s ale.

“Are food prices truly climbing so high?” Frerin asked, eyebrows knitted together.

Dain sobered immediately. “They’re rising,” he admitted, “and as long as this population boom continues, the situation is far from ideal.”

Erebor had been blessed with a long period of peace and prosperity, allowing the normally slow growth rate of the dwarven population to nearly double. While dwarflings were always a gift, accommodations had to be made for the increasing demand of things like homes and food. Thorin scowled and gnawed on the stem of his pipe. He could see the necessity of such an alliance, but that certainly didn’t mean he had to like it. At least Men and Elves knew how to appreciate good craftsmanship. Hobbits...bah.

“But we have duties here,” Thorin protested in a final attempt to convince Dain to drop the idea. “Dis is Captain of the Guard! Suthri has just started her apprenticeship, and I can’t drop all my duties as guildmaster simply because it would be convenient!”

Dain leaned back and crossed his gauntleted arms over his chest. “Arranging for someone to act as interim guildmaster while you’re away is far from impossible, and I’m hardly suggesting that all of you go. No, I was thinking, you, Frerin, and perhaps the boys,” he said, gesturing to Fili and Kili. “Yes, I think that would do nicely.”

That was it, then. Their fate was already decided. Dain was impossible to bargain with when he set his mind to something.

“Is this to be done without even asking our opinion of it?” Thrain interrupted quietly.

Dain shifted in his seat, suddenly looking rather discomfited. Thorin got the feeling he would’ve ducked his head like a cowed dwarfling, had he been anyone but the crown prince, had their lives taken a slightly different path.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Dain said, “You can refuse, of course - neither my father or I are about to order you out of Erebor for months without your consent - but I urge you to remember that this is a great honor, and all of Erebor will benefit greatly from it.”

Thrain sighed deeply and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Thorin? Frerin? Fili and Kili?”

Fili and Kili held one of their silent conversations through facial expressions and the position of their shoulders and hands. After a moment, Kili turned to Dain and, shrugging, said, “I’ve heard hobbit ale really isn’t something you should miss. We’re in.”

Of course they were. Kili especially loved traveling outside the mountain, some of which was no doubt that blasted she-elf, Tauriel’s, fault.

Frerin looked down at his hands before returning Dain’s gaze. “I’m reluctant to leave, Dain. My daughter’s only thirty-one, and I spend a lot of time away from Erebor as it is. I can promise I’ll think about it, but nothing more.”

“Fair enough,” Dain said.

That left only Thorin, of course, but he’d made his decision the moment Dain brought honor and duty into the discussion and his cousin damn well knew it, the bastard. “Fine,” he muttered. Oh, he was going to regret this. But someone needed to keep an eye on the boys, especially if Frerin decided against going.

Dain, on the other hand, was practically glowing with satisfaction. “Excellent. We’ll make plans for you to leave as soon as we can make all the necessary arrangements - oh, and Frerin, do let me know when you come to a decision.” He stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his robes. “Good evening.” And with that he swept out of the room.

Ordinarily it would be only polite to see a guest to the door, but seeing as how Dain had come calling for a favor at such an hour, Thorin wasn’t in a particularly charitable or polite mood. None of the others got up either, so clearly he wasn’t alone in his opinion.

“Well this is all very exciting, but I have an early training to run, so goodnight,” Dis said before getting up and retreating to her rooms, Vili following not long after.

Slowly, the rest of them said their goodbyes and either returned to their evening activities or went to bed. But Thorin remained in the sitting room, his pipe in his mouth long after the leaf had burnt out, wondering what in Durin’s blessed name he’d just agreed to.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite Dain’s assurances that everything would be handled quickly, it took nearly a fortnight to sort through everything that needed to be done. Kili and Thorin had commissions to take care of, Frerin had to decide that he actually wanted to go (which he did, after much cajoling on Suthri and Nothri’s part) and then clear his schedule for the next five months, and Fili was rushing to complete some scholarly text he’d been working on. It was, to say the least, a very busy two weeks, and at the end of it Thorin was still not looking forward to this...trip to the Hobbits’ settlement. But he’d given his word.

They left in the early morning, when the sun was only barely above the horizon, casting a pale pink light upon the nearby clouds.The rest of the family had sent them off with a lot of hugs and knocked heads and warnings - mostly to Fili and Kili - to behave (Thorin was a bit miffed that his parents thought they needed to remind _him_ to be reasonable). Dain had arranged for ponies to carry the dwarves and their luggage - they took only the necessities, as was traditional. Following the River Running, the Hobbits were situated perhaps four hours’ ride away, in the hilly lands between the river and Mirkwood; their journey would likely take about twice that, weighed down with luggage as they were.

Thorin remained quiet throughout most of the journey even as his brother and nephews started to sing travelling songs to keep themselves entertained. He couldn’t bring himself to even play at being cheerful about leaving his home for the Hobbits, of all beings.

The cloudless sky and the open plains were unsettling. Thorin was used to being surrounded by stone on all sides within Erebor. In the past, he had little cause to leave the mountain, as he never dealt with outsiders directly, even for trade purposes. Many years had passed since he’d last ventured from his home, and the farther he went from it, the more he longed to return.

It took the better part of the day to reach the Hobbits’ settlement, though Thorin didn’t notice at first simply because there weren’t any markers or border patrols to be found. He figured it out once he realized the meadows they passed through were cultivated fields instead of untamed grasslands. However, it quickly became clear that just because they were in hobbit territory didn’t mean they could actually find a hobbit, let alone their ‘Thain’. In hindsight, they probably should have asked where specifically they were supposed to meet instead of accepting the entirety of the Hobbits’ land as their destination.

Frerin called for a break, and Thorin took the opportunity to dismount and shuffle through his saddlebags for the map Dain gave him. The Thain’s home was supposedly marked on it. His mare waited patiently until he found what he was looking for.

“Good girl,” he muttered, petting her neck absently as he unfolded the map.

Frerin marched over, leading his pony behind him. “Wait - no. Thorin, give me the map,” he demanded, and held out a hand.

Thorin arched a single eyebrow before electing to ignore his brother in favor of trying to work out where they were. He immediately noticed that the map was upside down, but given that Frerin was probably still watching, it was likely the lesser of two evils to try and read it that way instead of righting it and admitting he’d made a mistake.

“Last time you tried to lead us to Dale, we ended up on the Northwest side of the mountain. Now hand it over.”

Looking at his brother over the top of the map, Thorin scowled. “That was a decade ago!”

“Yes, and when did you last leave the mountain, hm?”

Well. A...a decade ago. But that had absolutely nothing to do with his navigational skills.

A retort was on the tip of Thorin’s tongue when a loud cough interrupted him. He immediately looked over at Fili and Kili, who were tending to the pack ponies, only to find them staring at something past his shoulder. Thorin didn’t know what he expected when he turned to face...whatever they were looking at, but it certainly wasn’t a wide-eyed hobbit shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot as he stared at the dwarves.

His skin was unblemished and his clothes impeccably clean; despite the bow and quiver strapped to his back and the brace of rabbits he slung over one shoulder, the hobbit didn’t look like he could harm a even fly. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he finally said, “Um. Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes, actually.” Frerin stepped forward before Thorin could even formulate a response, his pony following and an instant smile upon his face.“King Nain sent us to assist where possible as part of the treaty negotiations, but we seem to have gotten a little lost.”

Thorin turned slightly and hissed, “We’re not--”

“Shut up, brother dear,” Frerin whispered back, and though he was still smiling at the hobbit, there was no mistaking the malice in his voice.

Thorin frowned. So now they were asking for the hobbits’ help with navigation too, as if they were lost children?

The hobbit’s eyes darted between Frerin and Thorin suspiciously, but as soon as he noticed Thorin watching he hid it behind a mask of bland politeness that Thorin had often seen Men use. “I’d be happy to show you the way to the Thain, if you’d like,” he said finally.

“You have our most sincere thanks, Master…?” Frerin replied as he made a show of smiling and bowing slightly to show his appreciation. Thorin tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes.

The hobbit seemed to relax slightly. “Drogo Baggins,” he said. Apparently Frerin’s charm worked even on these folk.

Frerin perked up at that. “Baggins? Any relation to the Thain?”

Thorin shook his head and turned back to his pony, forcefully folding the map back into a small square of parchment and returning it to the pack. Perhaps Frerin genuinely enjoyed speaking with outsiders, but Thorin would never be able to see it as anything more than pointless pandering for political purposes, and he wanted no part in it.

Then Frerin raised his voice above the volume he’d used to chatter with Drogo and hollered, “Are you lot coming or am I continuing on alone?”

“Yes, we’re coming,” Thorin grumbled. Even though he wanted nothing more than to turn around and make his way back to Erebor, treaty be damned.

The clop of shod hooves against the ground signaled Kili and Fili’s approach. Frerin darted back to Fili to retrieve his pony from the younger dwarf before returning to Drogo’s side, leaving Fili and Kili to lead their own mounts and the two pack ponies.

“We should be able to make it there before the sun starts to set,” Drogo said, shifting the brace of rabbits on one shoulder.

“Does that mean we’ll get one of your famous hobbit meals?” Frerin asked with a cheeky grin.

Drogo’s polite facade cracked and shattered as he threw back his head and laughed in a way that shook the entirety of his little body. “Of course! We’re many things, Master Dwarf, but never poor hosts!”

“Excellent! I’ve heard all sorts of wonderful things about hobbit food - and your ale, by the Maker, now that is a true treasure!” Frerin’s grin widened into something that was nearly blinding.

Drogo practically beamed, visibly puffing up with pride. “Ah, a dwarf of good taste! We’re going to get along just fine, I think.”

Kili laughed and muttered something that Thorin couldn’t quite hear to Fili, who covered his chuckling with a cough when he noticed Thorin was watching him.

“Shall we continue on, then, so we may taste this legendary food of yours?” Fili said, his smile smaller but perhaps more genuine than Frerin’s.

Drogo bobbed his head. “Oh, yes, of course. This way, if you’ll follow me.”

Frerin gestured for him to lead on. Thorin offered no further protest, if only because he knew Frerin would cut him off with a swift kick to the shins.

 

* * *

 

As they followed Drogo on foot through the hilly farmland dotted with the occasional cottage or door built into a hill - smials, Frerin had called them - Kili began to pester Drogo with questions about everything from hobbit meals to their music, with Fili and Frerin occasionally joining in. Thorin couldn’t help but pity Drogo, if only a little. He remained polite throughout, though as the conversation wore on it became clear that he found the full focus of three rather energetic dwarves rather overwhelming.

But then they crested another hill, giving them an unhindered view of the small field below. It was dotted with a couple dozen tents ranging from small, raggedy things made of sticks and a single sheet of cloth to large ones of thick wool and carefully constructed wooden frames that could likely house entire families if necessary.

The Hobbits were far worse off than Thorin had been lead to believe, if this many of them were still living in temporary shelters. Now more than ever, he couldn’t understand why they had refused Erebor’s earliest overtures of friendship when they were so obviously in need of aid.

“Is this all of you?” Fili asked quietly.

When Drogo turned to face them, he looked truly uncomfortable for the first time since Thorin had met him. “Some have already built their own homes, as you saw when we passed through, and the Great Halls house a few others, but many of us are here, yes.”

Thorin sucked in a deep breath, his eyes darting over the tents again. There couldn’t be any more than a hundred or so hobbits here, and they hadn’t seen many homes on their journey from Erebor. Were there truly so few of them?

“We lost many of our own during the Fell Winter and our exile,” Drogo added quietly.

Fili nodded, eyes downcast. Even Frerin and Kili seemed lost for words, and Thorin himself couldn’t help the sympathy stirring in his chest.

“Anyway,” Drogo forced a smile, “Bilbo should be in the Great Halls. He’s probably still working on calculating our winter stores.”

“Ah,” Kili cleared his throat. “What exactly are the Great Halls?”

“It would probably be easier if I showed you, but we should probably get your ponies stabled first,” Drogo said ruefully.

Thorin was surprised they even _had_ a stable, though he didn’t voice the thought aloud. He knew his brother well enough to notice his surprise mirrored in Frerin’s slightly widened eyes in the moment before Frerin regained control of himself and smothered his reaction. “Oh? Is there one nearby?” he asked blandly.

Drogo smiled wryly as he pointed to a small wooden structure built into the side of a hill perhaps twenty feet to his left. “Why yes, there is.”

Thorin fought a valiant battle against his embarrassment - and won, for the most part. Kili, predictably, was snickering and trying (unsuccessfully) to smother the sound with his palm. Fili at least remained outwardly composed, though he wouldn’t quite meet Thorin’s eyes.

“Well then,” Frerin said, mollified, and stepped towards the stables Drogo had pointed out.

The stalls were on the small side, but clean enough. They quickly unloaded their ponies and gave them fresh feed. Drogo led them to the tack room, which seemed to be available to any hobbit who cared to use the stables. It wasn’t even locked.

Before Thorin could say anything about that, Frerin leveled him with a narrow-eyed gaze and shook his head slightly. Thorin kept the few rather unflattering comments that came to mind locked behind his clenched teeth.

Drogo surveyed the pile of their bags in the corner of the room critically, hands on his hips. “You can bring your luggage with you - I’ll show you to the Great Halls whenever you’re ready.”

Thorin and Frerin glanced at each other, and Frerin shrugged slightly. It wasn’t like they could do anything else. The dwarves collected their things from where they had dropped them, and without further ado Drogo led them outside. His steps were faster and somehow lighter than before - perhaps at the thought of seeing his Thain? - as he trotted through the grassy field, navigating the maze-like paths between the tents with an incomprehensible ease. They passed a handful of hobbits along the way, all of them too busy bustling about their daily business to pay the dwarves much attention.

They end up standing on the stone steps embedded into the earth in front of a smial with a bright red door. Drogo bounded up to the door and pulled it open, stepping aside to leave the doorway open. “After you, gentleman,” he said with a quiet smile as he motioned inside.

Frerin, unsurprisingly, was the first to straighten his coat and stride into the smial. Fili and Kili shared a glance before darting after him, leaving Thorin to follow up behind.

Thorin couldn’t help but take a moment to stop and simply observe his surroundings once he crossed into the foyer of what must have been the Great Halls Drogo spoke of. The rounded wooden paneling that formed the walls and ceiling matched the floor, which was covered largely by an intricately embroidered carpet. This wasn’t the architecture of a shelter created hastily and with little care for its appearance or longevity; even Thorin, who was no architect, could see that.

“This way,” Drogo called back at them as he turned left into the hallway that ran lengthwise from the door. “BIlbo shouldn’t be too far from here - the storerooms are close.”

“What exactly is this place?” Frerin asked as the dwarves followed the hobbit deeper into the smial.

“At the moment? It shelters most of our fauntlings and our stores of food and seed, and we keep a large communal kitchen running here to provide for the hobbits who don’t yet have a steady source of income. One day it’ll be an administrative building for our Thain and the Mayor and perhaps a mathom-house or library,” Drogo said, shrugging.

With most of his attention focused on the construction of the smial itself, Thorin barely paid the conversation any mind. For all that he was a dwarf who would always prefer steady stone to flimsy wood, it wasn’t hard to see the care and dedication that went into building this place. It was obvious in every perfectly shaped plank of wood, every piece of delicately carved furniture he saw in the few rooms they passed. Perhaps - perhaps he had been slightly too hasty in judging hobbits to be creatures who would never understand or respect the Dwarves’ love of craft.

“Drogo?”

Thorin jerked out of his thoughtful reverie when someone called out for their guide. Over Drogo and his relatives’ shoulders, Thorin caught sight of the newcomer, a hobbit with a mop of curly honey-brown hair standing in front of Drogo. A male, most likely, going by the shorter length of his hair and his deeper voice. He was dressed just as plainly as Drogo, wearing only an old brown coat that might have once been red and sand-colored trousers.  

“Oh, you must be the dwarves King Nain sent - please, follow me, we should probably discuss working arrangements and the like somewhere we can all sit down, hm?” he said.

“Are you the Thain?” Frerin asked. Thorin couldn’t see his brother’s face, but he sounded like he’d found he was using colored glass instead of proper jewels. It wasn’t as if Thorin couldn’t sympathize; if this was the Hobbits’ equivalent of a king, he could hardly say he was impressed.

The newcomer blinked and then bowed slightly. “Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Bilbo Baggins, current Thain of the Hobbits. If you’d like, I could show you to where you’ll be staying, or perhaps you’d prefer to eat first..?”

Frerin dipped his head. “Food would be appreciated.”

The Thain continued, “Oh, and Drogo, I do believe Prim is looking for you. Something about the Clearwaters’ tea set?” He paused, nodding to the brace of rabbits on Drogo’s shoulder. “And dinner, it looks like.”

Drogo straightened noticeably and twisted around to face the dwarves, something approaching alarm written across his face. “Pardon me, but it seems my wife is calling. It was a pleasure to meet you all, truly.”

“Oh, no, the pleasure is ours,” Frerin said, and Thorin had no trouble envisioning the charming smile that accompanied his words.

As Drogo scampered off in the direction they’d come from, the Thain turned on his heel and continued on down another hallway without a word, leading them to an unmarked door. He opened it and gestured for the dwarves to enter before following them inside.

They stepped into a small but cozy sitting room, sparsely furnished with a wooden bench and four matching chairs, a stone fireplace built against the far wall. But before Thorin could take a moment to wonder why even the Thain’s quarters were so plain, a voice from deeper within the rooms called, “Bilbo? Is that you?”

Bilbo’s head turned toward an arched entryway set into the left wall, presumably leading further into the smial. “Yes! How is the stew?”

“It’s _fine_ , Bilbo.” Though Thorin had no idea who the speaker was, the exasperation in their - his? - voice was practically tangible.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the Thain muttered under his breath, and Thorin got the distinct impression that they were intruding on a family dispute with a long history. Turning back to the dwarves, the Thain said, “We’ll get you settled in the dining room - you can leave your packs here for now, if you’d like.”

They set their things on the bench before following Bilbo through the archway and into the next room. Though still incredibly plain, it housed a long table with eight chairs gathered around it - wood, of course, like everything else here - and past that, a large cooking fire and counters built into the wall for preparing food. Yet another hobbit, younger than the Thain, stood in front of the pot hanging over the fire, a ladle in one hand and the other fist perched on his hip.

“Sit, please,” Bilbo said as he bustled into the kitchen, bending down to open the cupboards under the counters and retrieving a stack of clay bowls and plates. “Paladin, be a good lad and set the table, would you?”

The other hobbit pursed his lips. “Yes, Bilbo,” he sighed, and stepped away from the fire, handing his ladle over to the Thain.

Paladin darted over to set the table with knives, forks, and spoons as the dwarves picked out their seats and Bilbo filled their bowls with stew. After placing a pitcher of beer and a basket of sliced bread on the table, Paladin half-turned back to Bilbo, wringing his hands, and said, “I really should be going now. Eglantine will fuss if I’m late.”  

“Yes, yes, of course,” Bilbo said, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Off you go. Wouldn’t want to worry her too much. Be back here at nine sharp, mind you! We still have that business between the Boffins and the Cleeves to settle!”

Paladin groaned. “Must I?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and shot Paladin a quelling look that almost made _Thorin_ sit slightly straighter in his seat, even from the opposite end of the room. For all that Bilbo was a foot shorter than him, in that moment his eyes hinted at a kind of steely determination that made him seem thrice his size. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only the plain, unintimidating Thain.

Slumping, Paladin muttered, “I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. Now shoo!” Bilbo gestured toward the exit.

Paladin snorted, but seemed happy enough to follow Bilbo’s orders, disappearing into the sitting room. A moment later, the quiet sound of the door shutting signaled his exit.

Remnants of Bilbo’s smile remained as he began to pass out the plates and bowls of stew and mugs of ale. Thorin picked up his fork, prepared to tuck into his food immediately; his stomach was practically eating itself after the day’s journey. But before he could skewer a mouthful of food for himself, someone kicked him in the shin, hard. He looked up from his bowl, a fearsome scowl on his face, only to find Frerin glaring back at him unrepentantly. Fili and Kili waited patiently, their utensils untouched, clearly only just  holding back snickers at their uncle’s expense, though Thorin still wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to warrant such a reaction.

Frerin formed some quick signs in Iglismek, hiding them from the Thain with some careful angling of his arms and body. _Wait. Host eats first._

_What?_ Thorin signed back.

_Hobbit custom,_ Frerin answered.

Of course it was.

Their host coughed lightly, interrupting their silent conversation. He’d already taken his seat while Thorin and Frerin were occupied and was currently staring rather pointedly at Frerin’s hands. “Please, eat. I find these kind of discussions are far more pleasant on a full stomach,” Bilbo said, reaching for the bread basket and tucking in.

Thorin didn’t need any more encouragement than that, though his enjoyment of the admittedly excellent stew and ale was dampened by the amused glances of his kin. He was distinctly aware that he was likely the least knowledgeable about the lands outside of Erebor in his family. Even Kili, with his elf-maid, and Suthri, reared on Frerin’s tales of Elves and Men, knew more. That had never been a problem before today, but now Thorin found he was almost embarrassed by his ignorance; he hated being at a disadvantage.

But what did a minor misstep in table manners even _matter?_ The _ûfu naisjiri_ was created to teach two different kingdoms to get along, after all, and surely that included learning to overlook their differences. So why should they have to adopt Hobbit customs, anyway?

And why was he suddenly so concerned with politics instead of eating in peace, after over a century of doing his very best to ignore the intrigues of Erebor’s court?

Thorin skewered a cube of beef with his fork, using more force than was entirely necessary.

“This is really good,” Kili said as he swallowed a mouthful of broth-drenched bread.

The Thain gave one of those polite smiles Thorin was fast becoming familiar with. “Paladin has always been a good cook.”

“Clearly,” Frerin chuckled. “Though I wasn’t aware you had a son.”

Son? Thorin hadn’t even considered that - a cousin or a nephew, at the very most; they hadn’t seemed very close.

Bilbo’s eyes went very wide. “Son?” he squeaked. “What - _no._ No. Absolutely not, don’t be ridiculous. He’s my heir, yes, of course, but not--” he cut himself off with a shake of his head.

“My apologies, then, my lord,” Frerin said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he suppressed a smile.

Bilbo blinked once, twice, before bursting into quiet chuckles. “My lord? Don’t be ridiculous. We hobbits are quite sensible, you know, and we don’t stand on the sort of impractical ceremony you Big Folk are so fond of. It’s just Bilbo, or Master Thain, if you truly must.”

Frerin stared at the Thain for a moment before recollecting himself. “Ah...of course. Bilbo.”

Thorin had no idea what he’d expected the Thain to be like, but it certainly wasn’t this odd, fussy creature. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was, in fact, the leader of his people. He wore no symbols of his status and carried no air of command; he was, when everything was said and done, rather underwhelming. And confusing. What kind of ruler refused to acknowledge his titles and his duties?

“But...you are the king, are you not?” Fili asked.

“Absolutely not! Hobbits don’t have kings - I’m in charge of military and diplomatic matters, yes, but I’m no more important than any other hobbit here.”

But there was no sense in that. Thorin couldn’t even begin to understand the winding paths their minds must take to justify such an attitude.

“Titles may mean something in your mountain, but they’re only pretty words here,” Bilbo continued. “And there are other things we must discuss tonight. I have enough rooms to host you here, though two of you will have to share one - I do apologize for that, but we’re rather short on free space at the moment.”

“Kili and I can share,” Fili said immediately, Kili nodding beside him.

Some of the tension in Bilbo’s shoulders drained away. “Excellent, thank you. Now, King Nain told me a little about all of you, so I’ve made some arrangements for -” he cut himself off mid-sentence. “Oh goodness, I quite forgot to get your names.”

Frerin grinned. “That’s easily remedied. I’m Frerin, these two-” he gestured to his nephews “-are Fili and Kili, and the quiet, broody one is Thorin.”

“I’m not _broody,_ ” Thorin protested. He wasn’t. He was quiet, there was a difference.

Bilbo’s cough did a poor job of smothering his laugh. “Right, ah, Thorin, Lobelia Bracegirdle runs our smithy, and I’ve already told her to expect you at some point, if that suits..?”

Thorin could only nod, though he was mildly surprised that the Hobbits even had a smithy. Everything he’d heard of them implied they knew little of metals except for whatever they used in their tools and cookware. Maybe there was even a chance that this Lobelia wasn’t a complete oaf in the forge, though Thorin wasn’t exactly optimistic about the chances of that being true. He’d seen far too many of the things Mannish smiths called swords to hope to find a decent smith among the shorter-lived races.

“And Kili, you’re a woodworker, yes? We’re always in need of skilled craftsman to help construct more smials - Prim is overseeing construction and land grants, so it’s probably best if you speak with her in the morning, I think.”

Kili nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never really worked in architecture before - not much call for wooden homes in a mountain - but I’m a quick learner.”

“Right, then. Frerin, Fili, your situation is a tad more complicated, perhaps we should discuss it on the morrow? It’s getting late, and you all must be tired from your journey.”

“I think we’d all appreciate that,” Frerin agreed.

“I’ll show you to your rooms, then,” Bilbo said as he pushed back his chair and stood, then waited as Thorin got to his feet alongside his kin.

As he made his way back to the sitting room, Bilbo continued, “They’re yours for the duration of your stay, so please, feel free to use them as you see fit.” He showed them to the short hallway on the opposite side of the room and then stopped. “The room at the end is the one with two beds, and the bathroom is the second room on the right. I’ll have someone bring the rest of your things in the morning.” Bilbo turned back to face them and gave a low bow. “Please, have a good evening.” And then he slipped past the dwarves, leaving them to sort themselves out.

Frerin glanced over at Thorin, who simply grunted and walked over to the door on the left. “Shall we?”

He opened the door and took a long while to just stare at the room. It was far more finely furnished than the other rooms Thorin had seen; a neatly folded pile of furs and blankets sat upon a large bed, its frame made of intricately carved wood, and a matching wardrobe was pushed up against the opposite wall. A padded armchair was tucked in the back of the room near the fireplace, and the floor and walls had been polished until they nearly shined.

He walked over to the bed and sat down. It was a feather mattress.

Yesterday, or even eight hours ago, this would have meant nothing to Thorin - but now he had seen first hand how many of them were homeless, how even their leader’s rooms were empty of everything except for the absolute necessities. And he couldn’t understand why his room - a guest room - was so very different. It couldn’t be some sort of ploy to impress Erebor into believing the Hobbits had more resources than they truly did, for they couldn’t hide their hardships even if they had tried.

Something like guilt curdled in Thorin’s stomach; it felt wrong to accept this generosity, no matter how freely offered.

He let out a frustrated sigh and stood, intending to grab his bag from the sitting room so he could begin to unpack. He needed to do something, lest the relative finery of this room - and how out of place it was - drove him mad.

“You okay in there, Brother?” Frerin called.Thorin looked up to see his brother smiling as he leaned against the doorway.

“Hobbits,” he grumbled, and Frerin threw his head back and laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a pain to write, but I honestly just wanted to get it over with. I hope it isn't too terrible. 
> 
> You can find my tumblr [here](www.murmuredlullabye.tumblr.com). I'll be posting things related to this work (music, headcanons/meta, maybe some reblogged gifsets if they inspire or illustrate something) there under the #yhr tag. If there's something you'd like to discuss, related to this fic or not, I'd love it if you'd drop something in my askbox.

**Author's Note:**

> ulkhad mi sanzigil - brighter than mithril  
> ûfu naisjiri - months of trade/exchange


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